


call me up

by magisterequitum



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 01:25:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterequitum/pseuds/magisterequitum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She unlocks the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard's surface. Biting her lip, she tries to think on her schedule. She's clear from any meetings until the afternoon. More than enough time for what she wants. </p><p>Tapping out her response, she says: </p><p>"Why don't you come find out?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	call me up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spyglass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spyglass/gifts).



> Based off this tumblr post here: http://kirkwoodisinoregon.tumblr.com/post/74798426187/thelibrarina-professor-whom-i-only-accept
> 
> And written for the Porn Battle prompts of: 'cunnilingus, desk, office'. And for Grace who asked and encouraged.

" _Thy beauty is beyond all earth’s compare;  
Pray tell me, lover mine, what dost thou wear?_ "

Ainsley gets the text while she's sorting through the President's newest executive order on naming recess appointments to the federal circuit. The Constitutionality of the action is in contention, and she's quite tired of Congress's attitude about the whole thing. As such, the chiming of her phone is a welcome distraction. 

The sender an even better distraction. 

A moment later she's glad she's alone in her Counsel office. The iambic pentameter poem makes her laugh, a noise that bursts from her lungs and ends in a snort. It's not very good, the poem, but it puts a smile on her face. 

She unlocks the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard's surface. Biting her lip, she tries to think on her schedule. She's clear from any meetings until the afternoon. More than enough time for what she wants. 

Tapping out her response, she says: 

_"Why don't you come find out?"_

He doesn't keep her waiting long, but still she has enough time that she smooths her hair down and the imaginary wrinkles in her skirt. She's not a stranger to sex and she's not a stranger to sex with him, but this is a bit different from their normal encounters at home or at events. 

When he appears, it's to poke his head around the corner of her door, blue eyes showing both excitement and apprehension. "Ainsley." 

"Sam," she says, smile coming to her face. She watches him there in her doorway and dips her chin. "Aren't you going to come in?" 

"Yes," Sam says and shuffles forward a few steps. His spine's stiff, head tilted to the side. 

"You did text me." Ainsley blinks, her throat working and fingers skimming the fabric of her skirt. 

"Yes." 

Raising an eyebrow, she huffs. "You did ask what I was wearing. I thought I could show you better than telling. Isn't that what writers are supposed to do?" 

She's not a writer like he is, but she's pretty sure that's something he's ranted on to her before at night. 

He steps closer to her, gaze dropping from her her fact to her legs. "I did," he stumbles over his words. "We do." 

She rolls her eyes and points behind his shoulder. "Lock the door, Sam." 

"Right," he spins around and does so, turning the latch with a loud click. And then he walks to her, that unfair boyish smile on his face, tan skin that's not faded from California at all. His mouth is warm and welcoming when he bends to kiss her. "Hello," he greets in a low voice when he pulls back. 

"Hi." She leans back, caught between him and her desk. The wood digs into her spine. "Your text was cute." 

A blush tints his cheekbones, an honest flush. He kisses her again and then says against her mouth, "I was thinking of you." 

Ainsley makes a noise of agreement. "I like when you think of me." 

He grins, thumb and forefinger stroking the side of her face. His eyes stay on her as he pulls back and kneels down on the floor. 

Her breath catches when he circles his hands around her calves, palms warm through her thigh highs; she's not into pantyhose in D.C. at all. "What're you doing?" 

It really is unfair how boyish he could look at times. Such as when he's on the floor and tracing the back of her legs, over her knees, till he's sliding her skirt up her thighs. "Seeing what you're wearing." 

She leans back against her desk, hands curving around the edges to take her weight. "I'm glad you locked the door." 

"I'm glad I texted you." He's entirely too smug with her skirt around her waist, breath warm where he exhales above her panties. "I like when you wear red." 

"I wear it to remind you all-" Ainsley's response dies when he licks her through the silk. 

"That you're still a Republican and won't change no matter what." He hooks two fingers over the fabric and draws it down towards her knee. 

"Don't forget it." She reaches down with one hand and cards her fingers through his dark hair. 

Sam rolls his eyes up to her, quick smile, and "I couldn't". Then he's wasting no time, spreading her open with his fingers so he can lick into her. Quick flicks of his tongue against her clit while he slides a finger into her. 

She knocks a pen from her desk. The loud noise of it as it clatters to the floor mixing with the noises of Sam eating her out against her desk in her White House Counsel Office. Her orgasm comes quietly, sneaking up over her. 

He straightens her clothes when she's done, pulling her panties back up and tugging her skirt back down. 

"Well," Ainsley says, watching as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, blue eyes dark and intent on her. It's enough to make her ache again. "Now you know what I'm wearing." 

Sam touches her blouse beneath her jacket. "Not up here." 

She is truly glad for his cheesy texts.


End file.
